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The Price of My Freedom

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
I’ve heard stories for years of people fleeing the scene of an accident.  I’ve never actually watched it happen.  Until today.  With an appointment at three this afternoon, I had pulled in the shopping center’s parking lot a few moment’s early.  I headed for the building, but I noticed a couple of men standing as if they had been in conversation.  When I focused on them, they were no longer talking to each other, but were pointing and gesturing excitedly toward the highway, just behind me.  As anyone would, I turned my head toward the road, said to be the second busiest point of entry into our state.  It was packed with traffic, some of it moving away from me, but most of the cars, pickups, and tractor-trailers were at a standstill; backed up for as far as the eye could see.  It is not an unusual situation on this highway; certainly not worthy of the interest evidenced by the two aforementioned individuals.   But suddenly, in the middle of the motionless traffic, my eye was drawn to movement.  It was not a car rolling, but a man running across the highway rapidly.

As I took in the scene, I quickly realized that there had been an accident.  Two vehicles had attempted to fill the same space in the turn lane and were still enmeshed, connected at the front bumpers and grills.  It was obvious that there was a person in one of the cars, but on the other car, the driver’s door stood open and the seat behind the steering wheel was empty.  It was obvious that the running man was actually vacating the scene of the accident as quickly as possible.  He was far enough away from me that it was pointless to try to stop him, but I did jog to the street down which he was running, to see if I could note where he went, in case there should be a pursuit.  By the time I reached the street, he had disappeared, most likely darting behind one of the many commercial units, to be hidden from prying eyes such as mine marking his flight.  I went in to meet my appointment.  I still haven’t heard if he was apprehended.

I don’t know why the man ran, but he clearly had something he couldn’t face.  He may have been driving under the influence, or there may have been a suspended license, or an outstanding arrest warrant.  It is even possible that he was in this country illegally and he feared the discovery of that and the consequences which would follow.  But tonight, as I contemplate his alleged faults, I realize that I have been in the same position, wishing to hide things which I know that I have done, the consequences of which, I could not face.  I have also left the door standing open as I fled the scene of my wrongdoing.    
As I wrote yesterday’s blog post, I refused to preach to you, allowing you instead, to draw your own conclusion from the stories which were related before.  Tonight, I hope you’ll allow me to preach for just a few lines.  You see, this Friday, and the next few days after, mark the celebration of the most important occurrences in the history of the Christian faith.  Our Savior chose – yes, chose – to come to His creation and take the consequences of the wrong, that had been done by the human race in the past and would be done in the future, upon Himself.  Justice demanded death as the penalty for sin and He took that penalty.  He died.  For me.  For you.

I will admit that there are years when I skip through Holy Week, moving from the triumphant entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, right to the victorious joy of Easter, Resurrection Day.  I might have done that again this year if I hadn’t watched the young man run from his responsibilities this afternoon.  For some reason, that door, standing open on the disabled car sitting in traffic today, reminded me of what our Savior did for us.  You see, what He did was to take the place of the offender, sitting down right where the fugitive had been, and He said, “I will take the full penalty for whatever he has done.”  And the Judge, sitting on His high bench in Heaven, accepted the offer.

Grace.  A pardon for the undeserving, and mercy for the merciless.  We are the beneficiaries of this incredible gift, bought at the price of the life of God’s Son.  I will never comprehend that kind of selfless love.  But, I will be forever grateful.

And, speaking of open doors, there is one still standing wide open for you.  This is as good a time as any to walk through it.  Maybe, it’s time to quit running.





“…Jesus said, ‘It is finished.’  And, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.”
(John 19:30)


“…for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, and all are justified freely by His grace through the redemption that comes from Christ Jesus.”
(Romans 3:23,24)

Guilty, Your Honor!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“…and justice for all.”   How many times have I repeated those words?  As a child, it was a daily ritual to stand and face the American flag, placing my right hand over the general locale of my heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  I thought about those last three words the other day for awhile and I’ve about decided that I’m not in favor of that.  Okay…hear me out before you go ballistic on me.  I know it’s un-American to not fight for justice.  But, I’m coming to believe that there may be a better way.  Let’s just say that justice is not what I hope to receive myself.  Let me give you a bit of background for my thought process. 

One of my many money-raising ventures as a boy was to deliver papers.  When I say papers, I don’t mean the daily kind with news in them; the ones for which the customer paid and for which the delivery boy received the princely profit of ten cents per paper.  I mean the “Town Crier”.  This weekly advertising circular was delivered across my hometown by an army of children, boys mostly, for the meager price of one-half of a cent per paper (probably more as time went by).  In addition, the paper could not be thrown from the comfortable seat of a bicycle, as with the daily, but had to be walked to every single door.  We weren’t even allowed to drop it on the porch.  It had to be placed on the door latch or knob.  This meant that the youth delivering this particular paper had to roll each one and then walk his/her entire route, going up to every single door and leaving the paper.  All of that to earn one cent for every two delivered.  We were trusted to deliver all of the papers we picked up from the printing office, as well as following the delivery instructions to the letter.  The reputation of the publisher depended on us.

I will never forget the day the boy delivering the papers on the adjacent route to mine was fired.  It seems that, while I and many others across town were trudging along, delivering the papers one to a house, on the door latch, exactly as directed (250 times for me!), Skip figured out that this wasn’t working out for him.  Halfway through his route, the Free Methodist Church sat empty every week as he went by.  Cutting through the church’s yard one afternoon, he noticed an opening in the foundation.  Curious, he squatted down and peered into the darkness.  It was dark under the building, but suddenly there was a light burning brightly in his brain!  Every week thereafter (until he was fired), he delivered a few strategic papers to their destinations and then turned his feet toward the church, pausing as he passed to throw half or more of his bag’s contents in the crawl space under the old brick structure.  For weeks, the young charlatan was paid for papers he never delivered, until one day a plumber was called to take care of a problem at the church.  This required a trek under the building right through the opening which was now full of stashed circulars!  A call was made to the publisher and the day of reckoning arrived.  Skip was now unemployed, having stolen numerous dollars of Mr.Offerman’s money and deprived his advertisers of the benefits they should have received from the exposure the papers afforded them.

Some of the rest of us who had done our jobs by the book for the pittance we received in remuneration were angry.  We wanted justice!  This cheater should have to give back the money he was paid for delivering those papers.  They had the evidence!  Just count the papers he had discarded and make him pay that back!  Firing him wasn’t justice; it just freed him from future labor and allowed him to keep the profit from his past fraud.

As I contemplated the meaning of justice the other day, another scene was brought to memory.  Around the same time frame, it involved two young men, one of whom shall remain anonymous.  These young men wandered around the neighborhood one afternoon, curious about the rumblings and vibrations caused by earth being moved, and the emissions of diesel smoke from an old vacant field nearby.  They had played there many times over the years and it appeared that some unknown landowner had decided to capitalize on his property.  The graders and backhoes were hard at it, knocking down trees, skimming the dirt off the high spots and filling the low-lying areas.  In short, the boys’ playground was soon to become a housing development.  And, they weren’t happy.  That evening, after the work site had been vacated by the machine operators, the boys returned.  A pocket knife cut a gas line or two, oil dipsticks were removed and thrown into the grass, perhaps even a little dirt found its way into the oil fill tube.  And, as one of the young men broke out a taillight with a large rock, a neighbor appeared at his door to investigate the noise.  The jig was up!  Police reports were filed and the two boys were picked up after school a day or two later to answer some questions down at the police station.  Those of us on the seedier side have a phrase for what we did there.  We sang like canaries.

The owner of the equipment declined to file charges, only requesting that his repair expenses be reimbursed.  I don’t know about the other young man, but I spent the next two years delivering papers and mowing lawns to pay back that debt.  I’ll never forget my Dad’s reaction.  I expected the worst.  Dad could ply the belt with the best of them and this one was bound to be a doozy!  But as I sat on the edge of the bed in his bedroom, he just sat beside me and looked at me.  The hurt written in his eyes and on his face was a worse punishment than any spanking I had ever received.  But, no remonstration came, just his sad voice telling me about the financial agreement we were making and then, it was over.

Mercy.  Not justice; but mercy.  Mercy from a stranger whose property was put out of commission by my shenanigans.  Mercy from a father who was devastated by my actions.  Justice would have been fair, would have been equitable.  But they chose mercy.  I was grateful beyond words.

I must admit that I have not always remembered that lesson well.  As an adult, one day my father and I sat listening to a news story about some young men who had committed a crime.  “They should try them as adults and throw the book at them!” I exclaimed disgustedly.  The quiet answer came from across the room,  “I’m glad there was a man who didn’t think that way when you were a boy.”  His answer has remained with me to this day.  We who have been forgiven have an obligation to forgive, but frequently are the first to demand justice.

Am I preaching again?  I guess I am.  Have you gotten the point yet?  Okay then, one more thought and the sermon is over.  In God’s system, justice is the standard, but mercy gets the last word.  It’s not a bad example for us to follow in our personal lives.  I’ll leave the reader to figure out how to apply the principle.  

And, I’m pretty sure that I won’t be able to run for president now that I’ve admitted to my sordid and lawless past.  My disappointment is profound.

“Mercy there was great and grace was free.
Pardon there was multiplied to me.
There my burdened soul found liberty,
At Calvary.”
(William Newell~ American hymn writer~1868-1956)

“Reason to rule, but mercy to forgive; the first is law; the last, prerogative.”
(John Dryden~English poet and dramatist~1631-1700)

Original post April, 2012

Some More Convenient Time

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The guitar sits in the repair section of my music store, waiting.  This procrastinator is completely flummoxed this time.  Three weeks ago, the electric guitar made its way, finally, onto my work bench.  When he brought it to me, the owner was unfazed by my suggestion that the delay might be two or three weeks.  He has other guitars and doesn’t need this one desperately, so a few weeks delay while a new pickup was installed wouldn’t be any problem.  That was six weeks ago.

When the guitar went on my work bench, it was because I realized that the deadline was looming.  Two weeks had passed, with a barely heightened sense of urgency.  But, three weeks…that was the promised delivery date.  So dutifully, a day or two before the deadline, I moved the guitar from its, by now, accustomed place on the back counter to the cluttered bench.  This job would be quick and painless.  It was neither.  Oh, the old pickup removal was fast and easy.  Screws removed, solder joints heated and wires taken loose, then the wire was pulled out of the cavity which led between the pickup and the controls.  It was out!  No sweat.  Then I realized, too late, that the cavity was crammed with more wires than is customary for its size.  The new pickup came out of the box and the truth really hit me.  There is no way this wire will fit through that cavity!  The diameter was much larger than the one I had just removed.  The cavity would have to be expanded.  This meant that all the other wires would have to be temporarily de-soldered and removed, the cavity drilled out, and then the wires could be repositioned and heated to solder them into place once more.  I don’t have the time to do this job.

The guitar sits in the repair section of my store, waiting.  Oh, I will finish the job, but just not today…probably not even tomorrow. Perhaps some more convenient time will present itself, eventually.

My mind is drawn back to a Saturday afternoon in South Texas, many years ago.  The fourteen year-old boy has decided that he needs to take a little more interest in helping his fellow man, so he has agreed to participate in a March of Dimes Walkathon.  He dutifully asks a few adults for sponsorships and receives pledges amounting to the staggering sum of twelve dollars.  He will walk some twenty-one miles on this warmer than normal October day, but it is a distance he is sure he will have no problem completing.  Although not a competitive event, he still has visions of finishing before any of the other hundred or so walkers.  The prospect of his name being mentioned on the local popular music station is enough to fuel the dream.  On the appointed day, the walk begins at the local high school, and a large contingent of older people are soon left far behind.  Along the way, four or five young men join together with our hero and they buy into the dream of the young man, jogging along with him in an attempt to be the first to finish.  Miles before the goal, most of them have dropped out, or at least slowed to a walk and are left behind.  Our protagonist outlasts and pushes past the remaining two of them to finish the course before anyone else that day.  The leg cramps and intense nausea he was experiencing took most of the glitter off the victorious moment, but his dream was realized and his name was announced as the first to complete the walkathon. 

One would think that it would be something about which a boy of fourteen would brag.  And, so I did…for a few days.  But, no more.  You see, the walk wasn’t completed until the goal was achieved.  The goal was for the funds to be put into the coffers of the March of Dimes, so they could be used in their fight against birth defects.  But there was no glory in collecting pledges from people, so I was derelict in accomplishing that.  Only after weeks of badgering by the school sponsor of the walkathon, was the collection complete.  It was even a couple of weeks after that when the money was finally handed over to the organization.  I couldn’t be bothered.  There would be no spotlight, no microphones being stuck in front of me by a DJ from the radio station, so the goal was actually reached many days after most had completed the actual purpose of the exercise.  I didn’t finish first at all!

One of my kid’s favorite childhood movies was about that astounding Disney nanny, Mary Poppins.  She introduced her young charges to a game she called, “Well Begun is Half Done.”  When he first hears of the “game”, one of her wards, Michael, mutters rightly enough, “I don’t like the sound of that.”  Though there is some truth in Poppins’ assumption, I would add (from long experience) that oftentimes jobs that are started without a proper resolve take even longer to finish.

I cannot begin to count the number of times that unfinished jobs have remained for months, even years, on my schedule.  I have perfected the art of procrastination.  That does not make it any more comfortable.  I am not satisfied with this pattern in my life.  I would tell you that it is going to change, if it’s the last thing I do, but that wouldn’t really be a step in the right direction, would it?  The habits of a lifetime are hard to break.  But, I very much want to have them broken.

So I resolve.  But, years of abandoned resolutions lie behind.  I still resolve.  Now, I don’t want to apply the Word improperly, but the Apostle tells us that “…He who began a good work will complete it until the day…”  He is speaking of righteousness, but I’m starting to grasp the concept that the whole man, with his whole witness, is involved in the work which is being done in us.  If God will not leave that work unfinished, it seems to follow that we need to carry our own work through to completion, also.

Who knows, that guitar may be back together in a day or two.  I started the job; I have confidence that it can be finished, too.  I’ll let you know…

“Brothers, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on to the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 3:13-14 NASB)

“It’s the job that’s never started that takes longest to finish.”
(Sam Gamgee, quoting his “gaffer” in “The Lord Of The Rings” by J.R.R.Tolkien)

Reaching Down Deep

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The babies were sleeping; one of them, simply because she just normally dropped off about this time of the evening; the other for some mysterious and miraculous reason.  It was after all, his common practice to stay awake half the night, demanding attention from either his mother or me.  Whatever the cause, there was no way that I wanted either to awaken at this moment.  But I needed to practice my horn.  A wedding performance was fast approaching and the preparation opportunities were few and were spread far apart.  I had to put in my time to be ready to play.  I knew what had to be done, but my brain rebelled.  “You’ll just have to use it,” the Lovely Lady encouraged me.  “I hate that thing!”  I blurted, bringing a rustle of bedclothes from the next room, as the infant in the nursery jumped at the sound of my voice.  Lucky for me, he settled back down again, but I knew my objection was for naught, and I soon found myself sitting in the kitchen, practicing silently…almost.

The hated thing was a practice mute.  My French Horn is normally not a quiet instrument, but necessity being what it is, I had purchased the mute a few months before for just such an eventuality.  The mute had a cork ring encircling the cone-shaped nose, where it was held in the bell of the horn.  The cork ring completely stopped any air from escaping, as the horn was played, effectively silencing the noise.  It was a device which was guaranteed to torture any horn-player.  You see, contrary to what parents of beginners on the instrument believe, the tones of the horn are amazingly mellow and inherently pleasant, with the pleasure increasing as the player improves his breath control and support of the air pushed through the instrument.  The practice mute ruins that completely.  The natural tone emanating from the mute is almost inaudible and amazingly edgy.  To top it off, no single note that sounds is in tune with the one played a second before.  It is a completely unsatisfactory experience, as the back pressure developed by the sealed up horn builds uncomfortably.

As I sat by myself, my chin dejectedly resting on the lead-pipe of the horn, I had a sudden flashback.  I remembered Mr Marlar, my horn teacher from years before, resting the back of his hand on my stomach as I played a passage for him.  I was surprised, to say the least.  Not one of my teachers had ever touched me on the stomach.  What he said changed the way I have played from that day, though.  “You think the sound of the instrument comes from between your lips and the bell of the horn.  It doesn’t.  The real tone of the horn comes from inside you.  It starts at your diaphragm and goes from there.  The throat, the tongue, the mouth…they’re all secondary to the support in your core.  The horn is even less important than any of them.”  He smacked my upper belly and said, “It all starts right here.” 

Now, a few years later, as the light dawned once more, I found myself concentrating, not on the sound from the blocked bell of the horn, but on the basics; support at the diaphragm, opening the throat, shaping the mouth.  I got a huge surprise!  The tone of that closed up instrument improved in an amazing way; the notes fell into tune with each other; I was quickly well on my way to being ready to play for the event.  A day or two later, when I was able to practice without worrying about the noise level, I got another surprise.  Without the practice mute, and still remembering the basics, with the tone of the horn coming from deep down inside of me and not merely from the horn itself, the improvement was almost miraculous and mind-boggling.  I don’t think I had ever sounded so good.  Who would have thought it?

Recently, the Lovely Lady and I sat and watched a televised performance of a legendary violinist.  Itzak Perlman is recognized by many to be one of the finest talents to come out of the second half of the Twentieth Century.  Perlman is Israeli born, having been stricken with polio as a child, necessitating the use of crutches for walking.  He is by now, an old man, and has earned the privilege of coasting through his golden years.  He does not.  If he were arrogant and condescending about his stature, no one could blame him.  He is not.  As we sat and took in the beautiful, emotion-ridden performance, I couldn’t help but be struck by one thing; This man plays from someplace deeper than his bow and violin.  The performance doesn’t come from his instrument.  True, he plays an incredibly costly Stradivarius violin, built during that legendary maker’s best years.  The bow which he draws across the strings of that valuable violin would cost well more than the most expensive instrument I have ever sold in my music store.  But, when this master plays, I believe that he could be playing on the cheapest of Chinese imports, with a warped and unbalanced bow, and lesser players would still rave at the resulting beauty.  The music comes from someplace deep down inside him.  And, it’s even deeper than the core that my teacher encouraged me to develop.  That was simply a mechanical function, learned by repetition and concentration.  When Mr. Perlman performs, the music is from his soul.  I watched his body, crippled as it is, move in concert with the strokes of the bow, in rhythm to the orchestra and its conductor.  Across his face, the joy that comes from doing that which he was created to do is unmistakable.  Soul and body respond to the call and the result is a pure delight, both to the performer and to the audience.  As the performance draws to an end,  and the crowd stands, as one man, to its feet, cheering wildly, I surreptitiously wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.  I wouldn’t want the Lovely Lady to see and think me unmanly.  (I think she may already have noticed.)

I don’t believe that Mr. Perlman is the only person who performs from his very soul.  Not by a long shot.  I actually am confident that all of us do (or are meant to do) that very thing.  We certainly don’t have to be musicians to experience it.  We don’t necessarily draw the performance out in front of millions of adoring fans, perhaps don’t even have one adoring fan.  But, what is in our soul and heart will come out, because it is how we are put together.  My mind springs to the couple who faithfully teaches young children, year after year, loving every single one who is in their care, however briefly.  I’m remembering a pastor who preached and sang until just weeks before he left this earth, singing his beloved old hymns in his deep, bass voice.  There are teachers, and craftsmen, and even janitors who draw the joy in what they do from deep within.  I am also aware that many who work at jobs do so only to exist.  The job is not who they are, is not what is truly in their souls.  Even so, they find avenues to express their hearts.  I’m aware that the way in which our souls are expressed can also change drastically throughout our lives.  Many artists don’t ever lay brush to canvas until they are old; writers frequently blossom in their golden years.  In some ways, this harkens back to a subject I wrote about recently.  Gifts are given to us so that they may be shared; not hidden, nor hoarded. 

Our Creator has made us unique.  None of us is just like another.  I love the collage that the Great Artist is assembling.  Gifts that are as dissimilar as they are significant abound.  And, as His artists, we stand out as bright spots on the canvas.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden. 

Shine, then, as lights in the universe.  Show the world your soul!

“Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.”
(Oscar Wilde~Irish poet~1854-1900)

“I believe that God has instilled in us a craving, a deep desire to run with Him on a fantastic adventure, yet many of us crawl along in life without even a glimpse of our hidden passion.”
(Bryan Davis~Author of Christian fantasy stories)

The One

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Some days I almost think that I wouldn’t trade my job for anything!  That was the case a just over a month ago when I was able to acquire exactly the accordion that Leo needed, at a price he was happy with.  The “love my job” part isn’t about the money, but it’s about the nearly palpable joy Leo exuded as he headed out the door with his new toy.  Unfortunately, that joy was gone when he returned the instrument a couple of weeks ago, with a small problem.  I reassured him that we could take care of the issue easily, thinking that I was the one who would fix his problem and make his joy return.

Two weeks and a raft of phone calls later, some not returned, some completely unsatisfactory in their outcome, it is clear that I am not the one.  I thought that my “customer service” representative at the company that wholesaled the instrument to me might be the one.  It turns out that he doesn’t understand what his title means and I was passed on to the “customer service” rep at the manufacturer.  Are you starting to see a pattern here?

The manufacturer’s customer service representative failed completely in his promises and obviously wasn’t the one, so I turned back to my wholesaler’s district manager.  Perhaps, he was the one.  “Call the ‘real’ customer service rep”, was his reply.  Nope…not the one.  The “real” customer service rep (at the wholesale company), understood his title a little better, but he handed me back to the manufacturer again, so he’s clearly not the one, either.  When I called the manufacturer this time, the man who answered the phone was actually the fellow who determines the disposal of returned merchandise.  He, in fact, knew exactly what needed to be done.  “Wait a minute.  I’ll get you a return authorization.”  I was cautiously optimistic; hopeful that I had finally found the one!  Sure enough, in moments, I had the all-important authorization in hand for returning the product to them.  Better than that, he wanted to listen to what the instrument was doing over the phone, and he is positive that they can make the customer happy once more!  He is the one!  Some days, I almost think I wouldn’t trade my job for anything!

Somehow, we spend our lives looking for the one, that solitary individual who has the solution to our problem.  I remember a few years ago, when the Lovely Lady was suffering with acute pain in her shoulder.  Believing that the problem might be a functional issue that could be helped by physical manipulation, instead of being treated internally, she opted to go to a chiropractor.  That physician ignored her symptoms and signed her up for a year’s worth of back treatments, “…to get your spine correctly aligned again.  Then all your symptoms will be gone.”  I was reminded of the doctor who recommended a medication for treating a cold.  “You’ll be right as rain in seven days,” he promised.  “Well, what if I wait it out?”  the patient inquires.  “Oh,” comes the educated reply.  “Then it will take a whole week.”  The Lovely Lady cancelled her remaining appointments with the chiropractor (definitely not the one)and called a medical doctor (also not the one), who made an appointment with a specialist (once again, not the one).  Does this sound familiar?  Still looking for the one, the Lovely Lady was, at last, shuttled back to a sports physical therapist, who assigned her some simple exercises that focused on the calcium deposit in her shoulder.  In a week or two, the pain was gone and it was obvious that she had found the one.

Can you identify with these scenarios?  How many times in life have you waited for the one?  I cannot begin to count them.  Best friend, mechanic, pastor, team member, guitar teacher…the list goes on and on.  We are constantly on the lookout for that individual who is head and shoulders above all the others in the running.  Frequently, we think we have found him or her, only to be disappointed shortly.  We’ll not go into the argument about whether there is only one human in the world who is the one person we are intended to spend our lives with as our soul mate.  Whatever the final word is in that argument, we haven’t heard it yet.  Regardless, we look for the one and have varying amounts of success in the search.  I’ve told you before that I am pleased that I found the Lovely Lady (she says she found me), and am convinced that no one else would have put up with me  anyway.  She is, no doubt, the one for me, as is her similar claim for me.

I’m not going to spend a lot of words preaching to you tonight.  I’m betting that you are all reasonably intelligent individuals, who can connect the rest of the dots without all the numbers, who easily grasp the gist of the word pictures I’ve already sketched out here. Let me say it this way and then you’re on your own:  If you are looking for the one in a spiritual sense, there are an astounding number of wrong choices.  Every single one of them has a promise to make and every single one of them will disappoint utterly.  Every place you look, every credo you claim will leave you empty and searching, until you find The One.  And there is indeed, only One.

I think it’s time for me to stop for now.  You see, I’ve got an accordion to package up tomorrow.  Turns out, for that kind of work, I am the one.  It’s not my highest aspiration, but for today, I’ll accept the honor.  I can work my way up the ladder from there.

“Now to the King of ages, immortal, invisible, to the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever.  Amen.”
(I Timothy 1:17)

Morpheus:  “You are The One, Neo.  You see, you may have spent the last few years looking for me, but I have spent my entire life looking for you.”
(from “The Matrix” movie~1999)

Gotta Serve

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’re going to have to live with rules for the rest of your life, Jack.  You might as well get used to it now.”  I didn’t say the words in love.  They came without forethought from my mouth, as I responded to the accusing tone of the six-year old standing in front of me.  Little Jack was a neighbor boy, who came to visit my children once in awhile, when they were also young.  On this occasion, he stood there in my living room, staring at me, speechless.  For just a fraction of a second, I felt remorse at the words, suddenly harsh-sounding and almost callow.  That feeling quickly passed and I thought that perhaps the young man might actually learn something from them.

Jack’s parents weren’t quite the disciplinarians the Lovely Lady and I were.  Being more lenient, they allowed the child to set most of his own limits.  We were happy to allow them that freedom as parents; he was, after all, their son and not ours.  But when he came to our house, we had rules which the children followed.  Rule number one?  Knock at the door before entering the house.  The first few times he visited, he walked right in, without being admitted.  More rules followed…We say “please”, and “thank you”, and “excuse me” at appropriate times.  On this day, one of my children had ripped a toy from the hands of the other.  In this situation, the rule of saying “I’m sorry” was enforced, to the incredulity of the youngster.  He had had enough.  Drawing himself up to his full three feet and seven inches, he got it off his chest.  “You have a lot of rules, don’t you?”  From a young father’s perspective, it was the wrong time for the question to be asked, seeing that I was disciplining my child.  Without thinking, I retorted the words which you read earlier. 

Jack stared at me for twenty seconds without speaking.  His eyes screamed his skepticism.  Surely, this grownup couldn’t be correct!  Who tells him what to do?  Who makes him obey?  His mouth moved, but he never uttered a word.  Without breaking his silence, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the house, slamming the door as he went (Another rule: Close the door; we’re not in a barn).  I’ve often wondered about the conversation as he arrived home.  What a monster must they have thought I was!  I also will admit that I have shared the anecdote a few times myself, just to get a laugh.  Over the years though, the lesson of the episode has been reinforced again and again to me, not always in pleasant situations.  I can only speculate about whether the young man had to learn the lesson the hard way, or if he remembers any of the words I directed in his direction that day.

On so many planes, we live out the truth I shared rather heartlessly with the boy on that occasion.  We choose to live in situations that demand compliance with certain sets of rules.  Our employment, educational institutions, churches, and even owner’s associations, all have rules within which we agree to operate, simply because we wish to live at peace with others in those groups.  No one bullies us to obey; we do so because we have opted to accept the benefits of the body.  We also live in a society which has laws by which we abide.  They are enforced if we step outside the boundaries, but overall, we can choose to live unmolested by not challenging the norm.  I won’t discuss at any length the issues of civil disobedience, but suffice it to say that sometimes participants in society disagree about the set of rules and either change them by breaking them or are broken themselves by them.  Even after this process, rules exist, nonetheless.

Without getting into a doctrinal argument, I wish to make this last point…I love the freedom that Grace provides for all of its recipients.  Oh, it’s not a freedom from rules, it’s a freedom to enjoy, to exult in, The Rules.  A friend today remarked on this and his comment brought an old song-title to my mind.  My friend’s reminder was straight from the Savior’s words, “If you commit sin, you are a slave to that sin.”  The song it reminded me of was called, “Gotta Serve Somebody”.   I was also reminded in a strong way that Grace makes it a joy to serve, to practice The Rules.  How could it be otherwise?

All of life has rules.  As a child, at times I was dragged, kicking and screaming (literally), to obedience.  As a teenager, more than once, I walked away in defiance.  Truth, though, has a way of removing all barriers.  And now, as I observe the battle many others are still fighting, I sometimes wish I could authoritatively state the obvious, as I did to that boy so many years ago.  It doesn’t work that way, though.  Frequently, the truth can only be learned in the school of hard knocks.  The lessons learned there seem to carry more weight than those handed us in times of ease.

Of course, I’d like someday to actually graduate from the hard knock course, myself.  Evidently, there are still a few more lessons this hard-headed student has to learn.  I’ll keep studying…

“But, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
(Joshua 24:15)

You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride,
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side,
You may be workin’ in a barbershop, you may know how to cut hair,
You may be somebody’s mistress, may be somebody’s heir

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You’re gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody.  
 (“Gotta Serve Somebody”~Bob Dylan~American songwriter/singer)

Expert in Stupidity

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The gorgeous, new guitar that had left the store was neither, when I saw it again a few weeks later.  My perfunctory look at the soft case gave the “Cliff’s Notes” version of the full narrative that would be told when the torn, useless zipper was pulled apart.  The black cloth was pock-marked with holes that had white tracks leading to and from them, indicating that moving rocks had played a part in the plot of this story.  As the case was opened, a glance at the owner’s forlorn visage steeled me for the horror to come.  The fragments tumbled out en masse, leaving only the battered remains of the neck and top in the case.  I have to admit, I had expected a damaged instrument, but I was not prepared for the shattered, splintered mound of debris that gave scant evidence of the once beautiful instrument which had left my shop only weeks before.

Almost tearfully, the story unfolded.  Ready to load the guitar in the car, but finding the trunk locked, the owner leaned the instrument carefully against the back bumper, moving to the front of the car to hit the trunk release.  An unexpected interruption came and the errand to pop the trunk was forgotten.  Scant minutes later, backing out and hearing a strange sound for several feet brought the horrified recollection of thought, but too late!  A careless moment and a phone call at the wrong time…these had contributed to the early demise of a guitar that normally would have an expected useful life of 20 or more years.  It was gone in the blink of an eye.  And, as sad as the experience is, I guarantee you, this guitar owner will one day find a way to laugh about the disaster.  Will they ever quit regretting it?  Probably not, but they’ll get over it.  It was a sad moment, but the guitar could be replaced and music would flow again, as well as some jokes and good-natured kidding to go along with it.

That is probably not so, for the owner of another guitar I was handed a number of years ago.  The man had decided to sell the instrument and was seeking a fair offer.   I looked at the beautiful, antique Gibson electric guitar and thought, “What a beauty!”  In top condition, it was worth about $3000 in today’s dollars.  I was excited that I would have a chance to purchase it and make a profit upon resale.  But, as I turned the guitar over to examine the reverse side, my heart sank.  The back of the guitar told a completely different story than did the front.  It was mutilated, with a large, square hole cut, not broken, in the center of the wood surface.  What (or who) could have done such a horrible thing to this superb work of art?

It’s not my vice, so I have no personal experience, but apparently, too much liquor makes you do stupid things.  The sad story was recounted to me by the now, very sober man.  He had been the guitarist for a local band which played every weekend in one of the nightclubs.  As happened frequently in those days, there was very little actual pay for musicians, so the bar owner compensated the band with free beers while they played.  Of course, as a result, the quality of the music suffered progressively through the evening, but the bar patrons didn’t take any notice, since most of them had also deteriorated in like manner.  On the night of the incident, the guitarist noticed an intermittent problem with the signal from the guitar to the amp and eventually it failed completely.  Access to the pickups was difficult without the right tools, and not having much time to effect repairs, he did the only thing his inebriated brain could conceive. He reached into his pocket, took out the greatest tool ever invented and…opened his jackknife and cut a small hole through the wood back.  It wasn’t enough room for his hand, so he cut it bigger.  Still not enough…well, you get the picture.  As the story unfolded, I stood with my mouth agape, listening in disbelief that, even in that mental state, anyone could be so witless.

I purchased the guitar, but for a price that was a fraction of what it should have brought.  I’m also sorry to say, that, like the appraisers on the Antiques Roadshow, I made a point of telling him what it would have brought prior to his senseless mutilation of a fine, vintage instrument.  My guess is there will never be a day when this gentleman laughs about his loss.  For some reason, stupidity doesn’t seem to become funny over time, it just seems more stupid.

We all get absent-minded once in awhile, sometimes with disastrous results.  That’s not the same thing as stupidity.   In the words of one wag, “Ignorance is curable, but stupidity is terminal.”

I’m still hoping for a cure for whichever one it is that I’ve got.  While there’s life, there’s hope…

“Life is tough.  It’s tougher when you’re stupid.”
John Wayne

“Stupid is as stupid does.”
(Forrest Gump)

Originally posted as “Mama Says, Stupid Is As Stupid Does” on October 7, 2010

The Lump Paradigm

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Don’t sweat the small stuff!”  I’ve said it a hundred times to people around me.  The layaway payment is a few days late?  “Don’t sweat it!”  The shipping address for that order doesn’t match the Post Office database?  “Don’t sweat it!”  The young man on the other side of the counter doesn’t have quite enough cash to pay for his purchase?  “Don’t sweat it!”  Again and again, I encourage folks to let it go and not worry.  There are more important things in the world to think about.  Frequently, the folks with whom I am dealing are reluctant to let it go, uncertain about allowing a stranger to foot the bill and suspicious that there will eventually be a price to be paid, somehow.

One of my favorite writers is Robert Fulghum.  I find that theologically, I am as far from him as anyone I read, but this man does understand life.  How else do you explain the title, “Everything I Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten”?  So when I read this quote a few years ago, it stuck in my head and made me think.  “Life is lumpy.”  Well, yeah.  But what does that mean?  I get that it’s not all smooth sailing, that there are ups and downs in life, but what does he mean, “lumpy”?  Thankfully, he finishes the thought…“A lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat, and a lump in the breast are not the same kind of lump.  One needs to learn the difference.”  I wish I’d said that!  Admit it!  You’d think I was a brilliant philosopher if I had, wouldn’t you?  But, I didn’t.  That doesn’t make it any less to the point.

Why is it that we agonize over such minutiae as a misspelled word in the church bulletin, but turn our eyes away from the homeless person standing in the foyer as we leave the church?  Why do we become incensed about an overcooked steak and castigate our waitress mercilessly, never caring that she is worn out with concern for a wayward child who is in trouble with drugs?  It’s not always others that we aim our venom at, either.  Many of us internalize our anger and distress, blaming ourselves for sloppiness, for tardiness, for forgetfulness.  Before we know it, our worry and apprehension has gotten the better of us and all of life looks dark, with no hope of ever getting better.  Day by day, we tie ourselves up into knots over unimportant details, which have no lasting value of any kind. 

Mr. Fulghum recommends perspective to bring focus.  Sometimes, lifting our eyes from our immediate problem to view the big picture will bring clarity.  Sometimes, we just need a friend to give us a kick in the pants.  But always, we need to make the important issues important, and the minor issues minor.  Otherwise our mindset, our moods, our outlook on life will be skewed and we ourselves are the losers.

Today, it rained.  A lot.  I have a couple of black dogs that live in my backyard.  They have a shed to which they may retreat in inclement weather.  They’re not intelligent beings.  As they wandered out in the pouring rain, I fretted and got myself into a dark mood worrying about them.  I also knew, in a tiny spot in the back of my mind, that a friend of mine was going through some tests in the hospital to determine the cause of a heart arrhythmia, an irregular heartbeat.  I wasn’t in a black mood about him, just about the dogs out in the rain (of their own volition).  Late this afternoon, an email came, reminding me that he will be having a procedure to make repairs to his heart tomorrow.  The light flashed in my brain!  Important things need to be made important.  Minor things should stay in their place.

I have one more comparison, if you’ll allow it.  I have complained repeatedly about needing a break from work.  The load has been significant.  I’m not as young as I once was.  And, I find that I’m getting better at griping about it than most.  As I talked with one of my regulars today about my perceived problem, I was in fine form, commenting about being trapped with no way of escape.  I don’t care if it is job security, I’d like a little less, thank you!  The customer finally shoehorned a few of his own words between those in my diatribe.  I started listening and discovered that he had to quit his part-time job because of the pain it brought on from a very real injury.  Now, a couple of years later, he is fighting to keep a pension which barely allows him a subsistence.  If he goes back to work, he not only risks injury again, but he will lose the pension altogether.  He is not sure he is even going to be allowed to keep the pittance he draws every month as it is.  Again, the moment of clarity comes.  Again, I am chagrined.

Life is indeed, lumpy.  I have my share of lumps to deal with.  Some of them have been significant; some have not.  I am continuing to learn that inconvenience is not the same as emergency; that nuisance is not the same as tragedy.  Now, if I can just keep my eyes open and focused.  Sometimes, like the reminder on the rear view mirror of the car which reads, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear”, the things I can see with my eyes are neither exactly as big, nor as small as they may seem to be.  Perspective needs to be kept at all times.  The class is still in session.  I’ve failed a few of the preliminary tests.  I’m hoping that I’ll do better on the latter ones.

I’ll leave you with one more piece of wisdom from Mr. Fulghum’s book that I mentioned earlier:  “…remember the Dick and Jane books and the first word you learned – the biggest word of all – LOOK.” 

I’m keeping my eyes open.  You?

“You blind guides!  You strain out a gnat, but swallow a camel.”
(Matthew 23:24 NIV)

“Clarity affords focus.”
(Thomas J Leonard~American life-coach and teacher~1955-2003)

Bubblegum for the Brain

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The workday is done.  I again sit facing my computer monitor, but instead of answering emails and processing orders, on the screen before me is an array of playing cards.  You know what I’m looking at.  That ever popular “guilty pleasure” for thousands, the Solitaire game, has me in its grip.  I remember when, as a child, I first saw the game played.  I was at my Grandpa’s house, watching the little black and white television set, with its rabbit ear antennas providing the signal so we could view the old western playing on the tiny screen.  It was night time and the cowboys in the bunkhouse were sitting around swapping stories, but the cool tough-guy character sat by himself at a table, flipping the cards one after another and placing them on top of each other.  I don’t remember anything else about the show; I just recall marveling at that game, a game that one person could play by himself.  Now, nearly fifty years later, every computer has a version of the game readily accessible, without even the inconvenience of finding a deck of cards or shuffling between games.  I wonder how many hours have been wasted by folks in our country alone, playing the game over and over.  My own investment of time has certainly been significant.

I find myself playing the game almost nightly.  I would like to have a credible explanation so I could claim a higher ground.  Alas!  It is a merely a way of passing time, nothing more, nothing less.  You may now resort to feeling superior to me.  I wouldn’t even blame you if a quiet “tsk, tsk” escaped from your lips as you realize the depth of my indolence.  I already feel your corporate indignation and disgust being directed at me.  In my defense, I will tell you that the game-playing does, frequently, have a positive result.  One thing I have noticed as I digitally manipulate the black queen to lie atop the red king, with another red jack being sought to continue the sequence, is that while I play this game my brain is cleared of the chaff of the day.  The stress and the uncooperative customer is forgotten, as my brain seems to go into neutral and takes a much needed break from the burden of everyday life.

I actually view the solitaire game as a kind of “mental bubblegum”, a mindless activity for the mind, if you will.  And often, as I play, an idea for something to write about in that day’s blog will spring up.  As the eight of spades is laid atop the nine of diamonds, in preparation for the blushing card with seven hearts from the draw stack, the flesh of the idea is being applied to the skeleton of a thought that was discovered just moments before.  You see, I find it difficult to sit quietly, doing nothing at all, while I hatch brilliant (and not-so-brilliant) compositions to offer to you in these frequent posts.  I am a product of my upbringing, in which sitting and staring off into space was considered lazy and was just as good a way to have a broom (or shovel) thrust into your hand as any.  “Idle hands are the devil’s workplace.”  Even though I feel a little guilty about it, as least the cards flipping in front of my eyes don’t scream out my laziness nearly as much as just sitting and thinking.  I actually did learn something new, earlier tonight, as I played the time-wasting digital game.

The game I play keeps score by adding “money” to my imaginary bank as I win (or deducting it when I lose).  I had been winning a few games, with the bank showing almost seven hundred dollars.  With no goal in mind, I kept playing until I started losing.  Six hundred was left behind and then five hundred.  All of the sudden, I had a goal.  I would quit when I dropped down to two hundred dollars in that bank.  It is, by now, an all too familiar mindset and for awhile, I didn’t think any more about it.  But the nature of playing being what it is for me, my brain began to skitter around the goal I had set for myself.  The goal?  Since when is losing to a certain point a goal?  When I was winning, I had no goal.  I just kept playing.  Now that my fortunes had changed, I suddenly had a target to hit.  Lose until I reached the chosen threshold.  How is that an acceptable goal?

As the cards continued to fall, mostly into the discard pile, I remembered.  We humans set a lot more contingency plans than we do positive goals.  We plan for failure.  We expect to lose.  Again, it is a mindset which is ingrained in us.  Perhaps parents, or teachers, or friends unwittingly pawned off their sense of lowered expectations to us.  I know some of you had family members who did so blatantly, passing on the cruelty heaped on them by their upbringing.  My situation was the former, with more than one influential person in my life who expected poor results for themselves, guaranteeing that the young minds they influenced would adopt the same mindset.  A lifetime of fighting against those thought patterns has resulted in numerous battles won, but there is no ultimate victory yet.  The moment of clarity while playing the computer game tonight exposes the ground yet to be taken.

How about it?  Do you plan for what will happen when you succeed?  Or do you, like I, work hard to get your contingency plan in place, determining what you will do when defeat inevitably drags you down?  I will admit that I have always had a certain amount of antagonism toward the “think positive” crowd.  I am enough of a realist to understand that failure is a possibility and that it won’t be avoided by clearing my mind of any trace of negative thoughts.  Still, I remember the story I was taught in Sunday School, of the widow that the prophet Elisha helped.  Now there’s a man who planned for success!  When there seemed to be no hope, he instructed the good lady and her son to go to the neighbors and borrow all the pots they could get.  He had a single pot of oil and was going to pour it’s contents out into what they brought.  I’m confident they weren’t thinking positive thoughts.  But, grumbling and doubting, expecting failure, they still took the steps to succeed.  The story of the unfailing jar of oil has stuck in my head all these years.

So, I think I’m going to plan for success.  I will reach out to assist in hopeless causes.  I’ll keep buying merchandise to sell in my store; I’ll have shipping cartons on hand to send out the products which customers order.  I’m going to work on making my contingency plans for what happens when things go well, not the opposite.  I know there will be bumps along the way, maybe even a pit or two that we drop into, but I’m fairly confident that the road leads up, not down.  Time will tell.  How about you?  You coming?

It may seem like foolishness to you, since you now know that I fritter away my time playing computer games, but we may all be surprised.  Well…I’m going to play Solitaire for a few minutes more now.  Who knows what bright ideas may come next?

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm; plans to give you hope, and a future.”
(Jeremiah 29:11)

“A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort.”
(Herm Albright~German artist and philosopher~1876-1944)

Was Nat Right?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

(Since I first wrote this and even published it for a few hours last week, I’ve talked with a few wise friends, so my compass is starting to point the way a little better, but I can certainly use your help, too.  I’d be grateful if you will put in your two cents’ worth, if you can spare it.)

“Smile, though your heart is aching. Smile even though it’s breaking. When there are clouds in the sky you’ll get by…”

This is not one of my normal narrative/moral-to-the-story posts tonight.  I have some questions.  If you’re expecting to read a ways down the page and then have the author spout some Solomonesque wisdom illuminating the correct path, you’ll be disappointed.  You’ll not read, “Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter.”  Because, I’ve got nothing on this one. 

The Lovely Lady and I sat this evening and in between the silences, we talked.  She learned something new about me.  “You mean, you don’t laugh at your own jokes?”  The question came almost incredulously.  I never thought about it before.  Most days, I seek out a pun or a word play joke and post it on my FaceBook page; amusing a few and probably annoying many more.  I have missed a day or two, not because I haven’t been in the mood, nor because I’m sad, but because I don’t always have time.  On those days when I am down, the days when I am saddened by either personal bad news or the troubles of someone near to me, I still post the jokes.  I’ve never really taken the time to analyze the merits or the integrity of doing such a thing.

The wise words, which did come from Solomon, have always caught my fancy:  “A merry heart does good, just like medicine.”  So, the jokes have become a part of my routine.  When I first started posting them, it was to offset the serious and sometimes argumentative posts that many of my friends share.  I just thought that we need to lighten up a bit and enjoy life…Let me rephrase that.  I just thought that you need to lighten up a bit and enjoy life.  Okay, so there may be a little hypocrisy in the “do as I say, not as I do” mindset.  I may need to work on that a bit. Or, a lot.

I have never made it a dogma, but I guess that I have always basically agreed with Nat King Cole, when he crooned the lines printed above, “Smile, though your heart is aching…”  I never intended to mislead, never meant to lie, but the jokes may have led you to believe that I am a lighthearted person, skipping through life as though the rough spots affect me not one iota.  That is certainly not the case.  In fact, recently, it seems to be just the opposite.  It’s even possible that I brood more than most over those spots.  Until I started this blog over a year and a half ago, I rarely shared my moods with anyone but the Lovely Lady.

So, now I need to know…is it dishonest to tell jokes when you’re feeling blue yourself?  Is it better to answer the question, “How are you today?” with, “I’m doing fine,” or with, “Not so good.  Let me tell you about it.”?  Should I “…light up my face with gladness, hide every trace of sadness.”; or do I unload what’s really in my heart?

I don’t want to burden you by asking you to answer all of those questions.  I do, however, desire your input, so if you would like to help me, you may use the comment box below, or make a comment under the posting for this blog on FaceBook.  Give me a one word answer or unload the whole wagon-load; I’ll love it either way.  If you want to just give a one-word answer, tell me “Smile” or “Unload” to indicate what you do when the sun’s not shining quite as brightly on you as you could wish.  If you can’t say it in one word (and I’m guessing there are more of you than I know), you may fill the spaces with verbosity, as I often do…or maybe you can give me the benefit of your wisdom in private sometime.

Boy!  I hope I haven’t disappointed you, haven’t destroyed your illusion of a guy who’s got it all together.  I do want to have all the answers, but this one still makes me scratch my head and wonder.  

So, now that that’s done…What’s the longest word in the English language?  Smiles!  Why?  Because, there’s a mile between the first and the last letters…

“Don’t Worry.  Be happy.”
(Bobby McFerrin~Singer/Songwriter)

“Do not lie to one another, since you have taken off your old self with its practices.”
(Colossians 3:9)